middle flower-ground
by chalkia
Summary: She thinks she would die for love. She always has. And she doesn't have to speculate for him— he already did.


**middle flower-ground**

"It's raining."

Vincent blurts as if there wasn't a hole atop the church, as if the rain pouring into the flowerbed wasn't separating them. He never looks away from her, and she's similar, except it's the flowers she's crouching in front of who she devotes all attention to. She's not wet by any means, but the splattering did manage to dampen her hair, to get flicks of dirt on her skin.

"I can tell," her arms circle her knees and the watering can next to her is rendered useless. "It's nice, I like it."

The scene is something he would never come up even if he tried. _They were friends_ , he thinks. Aerith and Tifa— while never close, were mutually supportive. He realizes how little he got to know them, and before he even thinks of shifting on his feet, Tifa glances up. It's enough to halt him all at once.

She's not glaring, no. More so, her eyes turn impossibly rounder out of curiosity. They don't seem to understand what their respective intentions are; it's easy to tell by the way her brows raise in wonder, and how he frowns in turn.

"Why are you here?"

"Funny, I could ask you the same thing?"

Tifa is surprised to see him crouch like she is, a little jealous of how in balance he is. He stopped staring at her, and more so looked around. Wandered the ruins in just a glance.

"Marlene thinks you're out looking for Cloud."

That makes her tense, and she loses her balance, colliding with the can and spilling the water. Her clothes surely soak in the spillage, but despite the wave of frustration, she lays there. She has a newfound interest on looking at the dirt anyway.

 _How do you know that?_ She doesn't ask. But he knows.

"I'm not his babysitter."

"No," His legs stretch, and he's back to his forever looming full height. "You're Marlene's."

"Barret is with her, I made sure."

His nod confirms that's still true, and that's a weight off her shoulders. For all she knew, Barret could've already left. The bar wasn't open on Sundays, true, but leaving her darlings alone settled heavy on her belly.

She's unsure why his comment turned her a bit sour, even if it was just a retelling of what she said hours before. This is the part where she, too, stands without stumbling, where she straightens up and confesses she's not here for anyone that isn't herself. Cloud, the ever present figure in her mind's eye, would always be a part of her sanity, sure, but never crucial. She trained herself so he wouldn't be.

Tifa is aware he leaves her alone often, but she's not lonely.

But, naturally, she feels like so some days. She can't put a finger on it, but she thinks Vincent would know better than anyone how it feels. If he _knew her_ better, only. And she's only more knowledgeable of him from the conversations she's overheard between Barret and Cid, the ones where they're tipsy enough to talk more loosely about everyone's affairs. When everyone has gone to bed, of course.

Vividly, she remembers the name they mentioned. She remembers because it's an ugly name, at least to her, and she wasn't amused when she connected the dots and found out it belonged to someone even uglier. Although aware disliking someone she's never met is petty and borderline childish, she doesn't try to change.

That day, Tifa realized they had more in common than they thought.

She thinks she would die for love. She always has. And she doesn't have to speculate for him— he already did.

Maybe someday she'll tell him what she knows and understands. Maybe someday he'll tell her he's already aware of that.

For now, Tifa just settles to having him stare at her, quiet, guessing he thought of her poorly in that sorry state.

"Are you tired?"

Her eyes dart to him again, watching him find a seat in the nearest bench.

"No," She finally drags herself to sit, her hand fisting around the hem of her shirt to squeeze whatever water still dripped. After doing the same for her hair, she brings her knees close again. Tifa lies, "Just praying."

She intended to, initially, but he _had_ to interrupt her.

The smell of wet earth soothes her if only for a moment, and it's enough to piece her thoughts back together. He blinks when he sees her frown, lost in her own head, it seems.

"Vincent… how do you pray?"

At that, he blinks again.

"I don't."

"Let me rephrase then," Suddenly, she feels tiny under his expectancy. "Have you ever felt the need to?"

Has he?

Sitting still and feeling the varnished, rotting wood on his back, he ponders. People pray when they're in distress, Vincent reasons with no one. Surely, he's felt that before, but only the kind where it's so intense his pupils expand to the point they nearly look ready to burst, as his heart alike.

"Never had the time."

Now she's the one that blinks, slowly. _Figures,_ she sighs— a former Turk would always carry the habits, even if you sleep for years straight.

"Maybe you have but don't realize," idly theorizing into the openness, she holds in a breath and, moments later, draws it out. A cloud forms, visual testimony of the temperature drop. "Praying doesn't necessarily mean clasping your hands together and getting on your knees," Aerith would frown at that, she's sure. She caresses the nearest flower as her sincerest apology.

When she puts it that way, he supposes he can call the frenzy of bleeding into the floor from a gunshot wound and looking up at the scientist with only the plead for the moment not to be real, a prayer of sorts.

"So you came here to pray." He diverts, tone gentle.

"Sometimes. When I feel lost." Hugging herself more so for the comfort than the very much needed warmth, she continues. "It levels my head. And I like looking at the flowers."

He thinks he can understand her.

He thinks he can imagine himself in the same position as her, and the feeling wouldn't be foreign.

What a sad conclusion. It doesn't have to be that way.

If Vincent had to pray for something, he'd ask to never meet her again like this. For her sake, and for his own. The introspective isn't much of his liking.

"Why are you here?"

The cold hadn't stopped insinuating itself into her arms, up to her lips, but she's not numb enough to let him settle into his own silence the way he'd like to. His expression is still blank, but there's a feeling that his words are there, in need of nudging. The wind sighs through the churches' cracks, as does he.

"I'm paying a visit."

That's right— she'd been the last one to scold him over the void his absence left. Not overwhelming, but he's likeable enough to miss him from time to time. She speaks for herself when she says he's a good piece for unloading her mind, just like praying is. But she wouldn't tell him that. Not yet.

"That's good. We missed you." Tifa makes sure to confess that though, looking at him for any signs of a change of sorts. "Don't disappear on us like that!"

"Isn't that what you've just done?"

Steering clear of being anywhere accusing, he intends for her to take a step back and _think_. She's unlike herself today, and Vincent frowns at the notion she might do this more often than she claims. To his surprise, she smiles. Albeit a little melancholic, and he doesn't think he's ever seen her like this before.

She looks vulnerable.

"Well, what did you expect? Praying is a lonely thing."

He doesn't seem to grasp it. "Does it have to?"

"No, not really. Not if you don't want it to, but I'm always surrounded with people— I owe myself some quiet. I think you can understand that."

"I do," speaking quicker than he intended, he falls back. It's strange, relating to her, out of all people. So openly now, too _. I'm trying to fix it,_ he bites back and the words sizzle on his tongue. Maybe she hears them. "Not…my best attribute, so I've been told."

"I don't blame you for wanting to." She chuckles and, this time, it doesn't sound like a sigh at all. "There's a measure for these things. I haven't found it myself, but there must be." A line between absolute solitude and overwhelming presences, she means.

Still, she likes to believe loneliness always ends meeting itself by if the line fractures, framing the emptiness.

The bench creaks when he stands up, and she cringes at the ripples in the air. The air blows again through the church and, on cue, the rain exhausts itself to the point of rare droplets for the flowers only.

She thinks this is farewell.

Both to Vincent, the church, and the quiet.

He circles the flowerbed, the gun at his side clinking at every step like a testament of his presence. Tifa realizes that this, in fact, was very real. She expected to blink and find him nowhere; had he not humored her, she would've forgotten he was here, not melting into the background.

The moment he kneels, undoing the clasps of his cape, her stomach sinks. He gazes into her, and she feels like they share something now. It's not quite the red cape what she means, but the notion is so vague to her, she decides to deduce later and slowly reaches for it.

All that is personal soon rots.

She drapes the coat over her shoulders, takes the still offering hand to stand up.

 _Home,_ he mouths to her, gesturing the entry.

She calls it a good day.


End file.
